


A Fourth Age

by AlexStone



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Eventual Canonical Character Death, F/M, M/M, Politics, Post-Canon, Slow Burn, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-11
Updated: 2021-03-03
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:01:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27962708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlexStone/pseuds/AlexStone
Summary: Samwise decides to run for mayor of the Shire, putting him onto a crash course with old friends and new enemies. A story about Sam's life in the Shire, and his eventual departure into the West.
Relationships: Frodo Baggins/Sam Gamgee, Merry Brandybuck/Éowyn, Rose Cotton/Sam Gamgee, Sam Gamgee & Pippin Took & Merry Brandybuck, Tom Cotton the Younger/Marigold Gamgee
Comments: 2
Kudos: 13





	1. Preface to a Party

Elanor Gardner walked the winding road between Bagshot Row and Bag End. It was an early Sunday morning in Hobbiton, its residents resting in the quiet state between dreams and waking. Elanor traced her finger against the pickets of the fence that bordered Bag End. She remembered when she had been too small to see over them, sitting on her uncle’s shoulders and watching the entire world unfurl before her. 

Bag End’s flower beds had become overgrown in the past season. Neat hedgerows over-spilled into unruly fiefdoms of petunias, thyme, and dandelions. _Any new gardener is going to have a long summer tidying this mess_ , Elanor thought. Perhaps she could ask Frodo, or the Brandybuck lad. It would be good to offer some distraction.

She should visit the Great Smials. Elanor pinched the bridge of her nose at the thought. Faramir Took was a family friend, but that didn’t mean he was her friend. Not after everything that happened.

Elanor rounded the corner and unlatched the gate. Bag End’s front door stood before her, smaller than she remembered it. The green paint had faded slightly, and had begun to peel at the edges. She could already picture the pile of mail on the other side of that door, the dust covered ornaments and quiet halls. Beyond that, she saw the same hobbit-hole of her childhood. Bag End stirred, a quiet beast, bidding Elanor home at the end of all things.

Elanor drew a deep breath. “Well, I’m back,” she said.

A blackbird watched Elanor open the door to Bag End. It cocked its head to one side. A nearby cat mistook a jump and sent pebbles skidding. The bird took flight and rose above Bag End, and Hobbiton, and the Shire. It remembered everything that it had seen, in all the lives it had watched Bag End. Each moment, each story, appeared in the manner of starlight, single points at first, before pouring forth in a multitude across the night sky. Stories of hobbits, and concerning them; stories of love and loss; and a new age, a fourth age of kindness. The bird spread it’s wild wings, and dawn broke across the horizon. 

§

Took Manor, undoubtedly the finest estate in the Shire, was alive with merriment. Eglantine Took had no interest in conducting affairs by half measures, and the fifteenth annual Tuckborough spring ball was no exception. In fact, these balls had become so popular with Shire gentility that the entire debutante social calendar had rearranged itself accordingly. It was rumoured, and one should always put stock in rumours, that the Took’s planned to announce Peregrin’s engagement to the daughter of the Long Cleeve lairds. Such a union of Shire old money, combined with several casks of exceedingly good Brandybuck wine, had turned the party’s atmosphere quite frantic.

Samwise Gardner watched the party unfold from the safety of the buffet. Theodora Twofoot, wearing a teal blouson, stared daggers at Bodelia Sacksville-Baggins, who wore an identical dress. Sam grimaced at the gathering storm, turning to the amuse-bouche laid before him. It was difficult to determine where food ended and ornament began. Tentatively, Sam reached for a gelatinous tower the size of this thumb, balanced on a dark brown biscuit. 

“Not that one,” Rosie Gardner interrupted, appearing at Sam’s side with unnerving grace for someone in their third trimester. “I tried it earlier. It is mostly vodka. I almost hurled into Georgina Hansen’s handbag.”

Sam stifled a laugh and returned the food to the table. Rosie was wearing the same pink and cream shirred maternity dress that May Gamgee had sewn for her during her pregnancy with Elanor. The recent move to Bag End had given them more space, and Rosie was reaping the joys of a consistent sleep schedule. Her cheeks seemed plumper, and her hair lay in tight curls above her shoulders. 

“You look miserable,” Rosie teased, straightening Sam’s bowtie, “did the Sacksville-Baggins’ ambush you?”

“Please, they still refuse to look at me,” Sam laughed, “I guess this isn’t my kind of party.”

This was true. Sam felt as if he had more in common with the staff zipping between groups, brandishing flutes of champagne. The last Tuckborough ball he attended had been with Frodo. There had been something comforting about being guided by the enigmatic master of Bag End, who attracted in equal parts admiration and gossip like a lightning rod on a hot summer night. 

“I thought you loved rubbing shoulders with the rich and famous,” Rosie winked, finishing a glass of tomato juice and making a disgusted face. “I heard the gift bags have jewellery in them. I’ll put up with anything for a good gift bag. Speaking of jewellery, has Pippin arrived yet?”

Almost as if on cue a master of ceremonies bellowed for quiet, announcing the arrival of the Took family. Heads craned eagerly to catch a glimpse of the Thain and his children. Sam and Rosie gave each other a knowing nod, and beelined to a garden bench where they could stand head and shoulders above the crowd. 

Paladin emerged from Took Manor first, arm in arm with Pearl, the eldest Took daughter. Paladin was wearing the full regalia of the Thain of the Shire, which seemed to consist of an almost comically large amount of medals. They were followed by Pimpernel and Pervinca, each brandishing ornamental fans, which Sam suspected cost more than most smials. Finally, Eglantine Took emerged hand-in-hand with the heir to the family name. A collective gasp rippled through the crowd as they caught sight of Pippin, wearing a navy-blue ball gown laced with silver thread that sparkled in the candlelight. Pippin was crowned with a circlet of white gold, and a diadem rested gently against his brow. Sam suspected this was some Took heirloom, as a pair of Bolger sisters had begun to gossip frantically. 

Confident that the statement of their entrance had been made, the master of ceremonies encouraged the party to continue. Conversations relit throughout the party, yet all kept at least one eye on the Took family. Sam helped Rosie down from the bench, before spotting a familiar face approaching them.

“Sam! Rosie!” Merry called out, bounding across through the party with drinks in hand, “I thought I spotted the two of you lurking. It’s been too long! How are the kids?”

“They’re wonderful, thank you. The Gaffer and May are looking after them tonight,” Rosie replied, “is Éowyn here?”

“Ah no, Éowyn hates these things. She’s gone camping somewhere in the North Farthing for the weekend. I’m drinking for the two of us, see?” Merry grinned, before draining both glasses. “We should go say hi to Pip! He’ll be so happy to see you.”

Sam attempted some half-hearted excuse, but Merry had already tossed the glasses into a rosebush and taken the two of them by the arm. Merry steered them through the crowd, dodging several cliques of increasingly well-dressed hobbits. They arrived at the epicentre of the party, where Pippin and Eglantine were speaking with a plump hobbit in a cream three-piece suit. Pippin screamed in delight on spotting Sam and Rosie, and dashed over to embrace them both.

“I’m so glad you made it! This is thrilling,” Pippin said. At a closer vantage Sam could see that the lace on Pippin’s dress embroidered small white flowers. “Be honest, Rosie. Do you think the circlet is too much? It’s too much, isn’t it. No, you’re right, it’s exactly the right amount. You’re so wise. And beautiful. I love this colour on you.”

Rosie blinked, having not said a single word. “Um. Thank you?” she hesitated, shooting a nervous glance to Sam. “This is a hell of a party, Pip.”

“Rosie, what did you expect? This is Took Manor. You’re in Tuckborough,” Merry said, emphasising the ‘Took’ in ‘Tuckborough.’

“Merry, you promised you would behave,” Pippin rolled his eyes, feigning embarrassment.

“As if I’d pass the opportunity to rip the future Thain a new one,” Merry grinned, “the heir to the most important title in the Shire and he still acts like he’s just another hobbit.”

“Well…” Rosie and Sam said simultaneously, before looking at each other and laughing. Neither could remember the last time Pippin had behaved like ‘just another hobbit.’

“Someone needs to keep the Shire interesting,” Pippin retorted, curtseying before turning to the hobbit in the cream suit. “Sam, Rosie, let me introduce you to Will Whitfoot. Will, you remember the Gardners? They currently live in Bag End, Baggins’ old home.”

Mayor Will Whitfoot, stood at an imposing four foot three, straightened the waistcoat that sat comfortably against his large frame. Sam remembered brief conversations with Will during the period when Frodo held the office of the Mayor. The hobbit struck Sam as overbearing, in all senses of the word.

“Sam… and Rosie, yes?” Will offered his hand, “Of course. Bag End. Wonderful home. I don’t get to Hobbiton often, but I remember Old Baggins’ birthday party. Hell of a night. What is Frodo up to, these days?”

A cold silence fell across the group, as Pippin’s eyes darted from Sam to Merry. Rosie caught the faltering conversation. “Frodo isn’t with us anymore,” she explained. 

“Oh. Pity.“ Will paused to chew his pipe, “He was a terrific conversationalist. Offered to translate my collection of elvish scrolls. Ah well.”

Sam tried to catch Pippin's eye, but his friend was suddenly very interested in getting another flute of champagne. Pippin had withdrawn after their journey to the Grey Havens, throwing himself instead into Took family affairs. Merry and Sam commiserated each anniversary of Frodo’s departure at the Green Dragon, but Pippin had recently found excuses for not attending. Sam snapped back to the conversation when he realised that Merry was asking Rosie about their children.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Rosie hesitated, coughing nervously, “we haven’t thought about school yet. I never went, and Sam was taught by Master Bilbo. There aren’t many tutors in Hobbiton, but I guess we haven’t looked properly...”

“Don’t pester the girl, Master Brandybuck,” Will chortled, clapping Sam on the arm. “School isn’t for everyone. I’m sure the Gardners know what is best for their family. Choice is what makes the Shire great, after all.”

“Nope. No slogans,” Pippin groaned, “I warned you, Will.”

“I can’t help it,” Will laughed, drawing himself to stand above Pippin, “Midsummer is only a few months, and Lithe with it. One more term for me, I think. Junior will be ready for the next term. We are looking forward to Took support, by the way. Your old man has been very good to us.”

“And as Thain I will continue to do so,” Pippin nodded, as if rehearsing lines. “You’re going to have to explain this proposal for a gin distillery in Buckland.”

“So long as Diamond’s old man follows through with the land acquisition,” Will elbowed Pippin conspiratorially, “when is the big announcement?”

“You aren’t supposed to know about that,” Pippin arched his eyebrows.

“Pippin, Pippin, it’s the only reason we’re here,” Will guffawed, “you’re in the wrong family for privacy, my boy! You’re a Took of Tuckborough.”

Pippin scowled at Merry, who mouthed ‘I told you.’ Rosie turned to Sam, and they shrugged at each other. Despite inheriting Bag End they knew to keep clear of hobbit high society. There was an invisible line that existed between the Shire’s noble houses and everyone else. For Sam, it felt like an itch on the back of his hands, a knowledge that despite what they shared, Merry and Pippin would always exist in a different world to him.

“Are there any campaign policies we should expect?” Merry asked.

“Lord, Merry, I don’t know,” Will rolled his eyes, “same as always. Let people live their lives, don’t interfere. Why change?”

“Nothing new?” Rosie interjected, before catching herself.

Will blinked, as if he had forgotten about Sam and Rosie’s existence. “I… well, I’m certain there’s something…” he paused, before brushing it off, “in honesty, who cares? People will have plenty to celebrate at Lithe. I’ve accepted that the mayorship is an afterthought to most.”

Sam frowned. He couldn’t tell if it was the buzz of the party, or the itch on his hands, or the look on Will’s face. “That’s… not true though,” Sam said, “the mayorship is the only elected position with authority over the whole Shire. That’s important. You don’t answer to anyone.”

“I answer to the Thain,” Will’s eyes narrowed, uncertain about where the conversation was going.

“Not officially,” Sam said, “No offence, Pip. The mayor doesn’t need to answer to the Thain. It’s an independent position.”

Will sucked his teeth, evaluating Sam. “Gardner, right? Previously Gamgee? You deputised Baggins when he was interim mayor,” Will said, as Sam nodded, “I remember you now. Let me break it down for you. There is theory and ideals, and there is reality. Never confuse one for the other.”

“And this is why I told you to not talk politics,” Pippin interrupted, clearly bored, “could we please talk about something even remotely interesting?”

Will laughed, before excusing himself to go to the buffet. Sam jumped at a loud yell behind him, only to realise that one of the Bolger sisters had knocked over a small pyramid of wine glasses. Pippin dashed to one of the butlers, hurriedly explaining which champagnes should be brought as replacement. Merry and Rosie rounded on Sam.

“That was… interesting,” Rosie frowned.

“That was incredible,” Merry chuckled, “I never knew you had an eye for politics, Sam."

Sam felt the conversation move on without him. The wave of adrenaline had passed, and he suddenly felt very tired. He saw some of the nearby guests sending him sharp glances. He knew that within the hour everyone at the party would know about his conversation with Will. Sam hated being the centre of attention, yet all too often found himself there. Merry and Rosie progressed to talking about wild swimming, so Sam excused himself from the conversation.

The party gravitated around a pair of marquee tents, illuminated by strung lanterns. Sam wandered away from the tents, towards a series of walled gardens that flanked the estate. He considered the maze garden, but decided against it after spotting one of the Twofoot lads scurrying into it with the Hansen son.

Gentlehobbits mingled under a sky full of stars. Laughter and frivolity echoed into the darkness. Sam wandered through the walled garden, checking off flowers as he saw them. _Treasure Flower, alstroemeria, bachelor’s button._ Sam frowned at the straight lines and sharp corners. Whoever maintained the Took garden was working twice as hard to hold nature back. Sam stopped at a patch of calluna heather, inhaling the subtle earthy scent. In the darkness the pink buds seemed almost purple. Sam ran his fingers through the stems, feeling the fine grain of pollen between forefinger and thumb.

Moving into Bag End had transformed Sam’s personal finances. No longer needing to work every day, Sam had devoted himself to home repair. In truth, change had snuck up on him. Converting Elanor’s nursery had turned into developing a play room, which had spiralled into child-proofing the kitchen. By the time Rose was born Sam had resigned himself to converting Bilbo’s old study into a children’s bedroom. There were days when he missed gardening, working with a client to paint their imagination in flower and vine. Still, Sam had kept Frodo’s design for Bag End’s garden, with all its wild curves and sharp accents of vibrant colour. 

The flower beds opened into a sculpture garden. Fine topiary lined the low wall, and statues of famous Tooks interspersed a circular stone path. Sam squinted, trying to remember his Ferimbras from his Fortinbras. The statues looked down at Sam with cold eyes, frozen in time. Sam spotted Pippin stood in the centre of the garden. Sam approached Pippin, who seemed deep in thought. A statue towered over him, a male with sharp cheeks and a heroic posture, adorned with medals.

“Isengrim the Second,” Pippin said, noting Sam’s arrival, “22nd Thain. Founded the Great Smials, back when the Tooks and Brandybucks couldn’t decide on the line of accession. I don’t think people realise how close the Shire came to splintering back then. People couldn’t even agree on which calendar to use.”

“The Shire reforms, right?” Sam asked, remembering one of Bilbo’s history lessons. “Hell of a family tree, Pip. I think we got a grandfather clock from my Gaffer’s old man. He says it belonged to Hob Gammidge. I’m not so sure. Besides, I don’t think I have the body for being a statue.”

“Me neither. They wouldn’t capture my sparkling personality,” Pippin laughed softly, “No choice about it though. Figure my dad has a decade in him, maybe more, maybe less. Then…”

“You’ll still have us,” Sam nudged Pippin, attempting a lighter tone. “We won’t let the power go to your head. You’ll probably have to remind me to bow.”

Pippin laughed and ran his hands through his hair. Sam looked up into the night sky, spotting a dark shape swoop through the air. The sounds of the party seemed far away, and Sam wondered how Rosie was handling herself.

“This is nice,” Pippin murmured, “we should do it again. Me, you, Merry. Maybe some time in the summer?”

“I’d love that,” Sam smiled. It had been a while since the three of them had spent time together.

“Yes, well,” Pippin swallowed, “I’ll pencil something in. Will is booking my calendar like a fiend. Campaign stuff.” 

“Will?” Sam frowned, “I know this doesn’t concern me, but I don’t know why you put up with him. He doesn’t seem to care about being mayor. Now that I think of it, I don’t think he’s ever cared about being mayor. I can’t remember the last time I’ve seen him in Hobbiton…”

“You’re right. It doesn’t concern you,” Pippin said sternly. He paused, before taking a breath. “I’m sorry, that was rude,” he continued, “look, the Whitfoots and the Tooks go back generations. We scratch his back, he scratches ours. It’s politics.”

“But it isn't right,” Sam bit his lip, feeling heat rise in his cheeks.

Pippin turned to Sam. An expression flashed across Pippin’s face that Sam had not seen before. 

“This is bigger than you or me,” Pippin said, “don’t get involved, Sam. Sometimes you just have to let it go.”

A hobbit in a sharp suit scurried across the garden, explaining that Pippin was required back with the Thain’s party. Pippin’s face softened, and he put a hand on Sam’s shoulder, before being guided back in the direction of the party. Sam stood in the darkness, peculiar thoughts beginning to form in his mind. He looked up at the statue. Isengrim the Second looked back with grey, unfaltering eyes.

Sam eventually found his way back to the party, finding Merry and Rosie in the same spot he had left them.

“Gondor sounds beautiful,” Rosie said wistfully, “I was already too far gone with Elanor when we got married, we couldn’t have a proper honeymoon. I would love to travel out there one day.”

“You should!” Merry exclaimed, “Rohan is incredible. Wide open plains, like the North Farthing, but stretching as far as the eye can see. Éowyn and I are going to travel out there this summer. You would love it.”

Sam winced at the reminder of their honeymoon. It had happened so quickly, their marriage, Elanor’s birth, Frodo’s departure. The opportunity had passed them so quickly that they only noticed it when it was gone. 

“Not now,” Rosie gazed at the party absentmindedly. “Maybe once this one is old enough. Oh, I would love an adventure.”

“Careful, Rosie,” Sam took her hand in his, “you’re starting to sound like old Master Bilbo.”

“Bag End needs at least one interesting occupant,” Merry grinned.

Rosie’s response was cut off by the sound of clinking glass. The party immediately quietened, eyes turning to the source of the interruption. Paladin Took had mounted a small stage to the side of the party. He waved the crowd into silence, before clearing his throat and speaking.

“Thank you all for coming this evening,” Paladin spoke with a lilting Tuckborough drawl, “in the grand tradition of Took spring balls, Eglantine has forbidden me from delivering speeches. Nonetheless, I must briefly hold your attention, after which I promise you may continue drinking yourselves into oblivion.”

A smattering of laughter rippled through the audience, as some hobbits were not certain if this was a subtle hint to stop drinking. A group of nearby Sacksville-Baggins began whispering furiously to each other, tossing their drinks into the grass.

“In truth, I felt it best to take this opportunity to make an announcement. While I wish gossiping were not the currency of the day, there only so many arrangements a family can keep private,” Paladin continued. Realisation dawned on the guests, marked by several gasps of excitement. “As such, I shall take the opportunity to announce that my son, Peregrin Took, has proposed to Diamond of the Long Cleeve lairds,” Paladin paused for dramatic effect, “and she has accepted.”

A roar ripped through the audience like wildfire. Sam had never seen so many gentlehobbits simultaneously lose their minds. Paladin welcomed the betrothed onstage. Pippin was joined by a tall hobbit in an impressively tailored maroon suit, with an enormous sinamay hat positioned atop a tightly bound bun of hair. Diamond smiled warmly, before taking Pippin’s hand and joining him in waving to the audience. Enthusiastic cheers rose to meet them.

“They look happy,” Rosie rested her head against Sam’s shoulder.

“Oh, they get on like smial on fire,” Merry explained, “Diamond… understands Pippin. Always has done. The fact that she belongs to the oldest of old Shire money is just icing.”

“Huh,” Sam said, “some hobbits really do have it all.” 

The party, having reached its natural crescendo, began the slow descent into the cool embers of the evening. Merry continued to regale Rosie with stories of his adventures with Éowyn. Sam watched Took Manor sparkle in candlelight. He felt more sober than expected, adding to a sense of distance between himself and the revelry. By the time Theodora Twofoot had gotten into a screaming match with Bodelia Sacksville-Baggins, Sam suggested that he and Rosie might start the long journey back to Hobbiton.

They gathered their jackets, kissing Merry goodnight and promising to visit him and Éowyn in Buckland. A series of carriages stood outside of Took Manor, and a driver offered to take them back to Hobbiton. As the sounds of the party faded, Sam watched the dark expanse of the South Farthing spread out before him. The rolling hills of Tuckborough softened into the open fields of the West Farthing, and soon the twinkling lights of Hobbiton could be seen in the distance.

Sam felt Rosie’s head rest against his shoulder. In his mind he saw his future in the Shire, each year following the next. He saw his life unfolding before him, in all its predictability, and Elanor’s life, and her children’s lives, and lives echoing onwards into forever. He thought of Marigold, and May, and Daisy, and the Green Dragon. He thought of all the faces he couldn’t remember, the stories he didn’t know, and the struggles that happened below the surface. He remembered lying with Frodo on their last night in Rivendell, when all their future seemed to be an unanswered question.

“If not me, then who?” Frodo had said, his voice echoing as clear in Sam’s mind as that day they spent entangled in bedsheets.

The carriage shuddered to a halt outside of Bag End. A faint light flickered from the study fireplace. Rosie turned to Sam, placing her hand on his. Sam looked at her, and for a moment thought he saw the shine of starlight in her eyes. 

_“If not me, then who?”_

“Rosie,” he spoke slowly, deliberately, knowing he stood on the threshold of a new age, “I’m going to run for mayor.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to nonbinaryhamlet and iskello for beta reading this chapter


	2. Green Dragon Once More

“You’re going to do _what_?”

Merry stood from his seat, opposite Sam, Rosie, and Daisy Gamgee. A week had passed since the Took ball, and Buckland was alive with spring bloom. Crocuses and bluebells erupted along the banks of the Bywater, against which a small bungalow lay nestled amongst an orchard of peach trees. Merry and Éowyn, alone and in love at last, had reached the final stages of building their new home. Éowyn sat at Merry’s side, a sly grin creeping across her face as she observed her husband's incredulity. 

“Sam is going to run for mayor,” Daisy repeated, producing a notebook and leafing through notes of pages.

“Wonderful,” Merry scoffed, “I’m glad we’ve all lost our minds. No, Sam, this is insanity. You can’t just decide you want to be mayor of the Shire.”

“Actually, he can,” Daisy corrected. She stopped at the page she was looking for and passed the notebook to Merry. “The Mayor of the Shire is an elected position, and any hobbit can make a candidacy at least one month before Lithe.”

“Thank you for the civics lesson, Daisy,” Merry snapped, “you know that’s not what I mean. There’s a reason we call it the Mayor of Michel Delving. It’s a Westfarthing position, and it has been for a century. Whitfoot has been mayor for four terms. His father was mayor for 5 terms. It’s an open secret that Will’s son is going to inherit the office. No one _contests_ the mayorship. I’d love to live in a fantasy world, but I don’t. I live in the Shire, and this is how the Shire works.”

“Why can’t the Shire change?” Rosie asked. 

“Because it’s the Shire,” Merry threw his hands into the air, “Bilbo was _persona non grata_ after going on an unplanned holiday. What do you think is going to happen when, I’m sorry Sam, Bilbo’s _gardener_ decides he wants to be mayor?”

“People want change,” Rosie leaned across the table, “we hear it at the Green Dragon. Young hobbits talk about what you four did. They are starting to question things.”

”Hobbits talk a big game over a pint,” Merry scowled, “but last time I checked we don’t let Green Dragon regulars choose the mayor. You need electors at Lithe, and they are not going to choose you.“

Rosie rearranged herself on the chair, before taking a breath and continuing. “Merry, I trust him. Sam has a real plan. You, of all people, know how much the Shire is changing.”

“She’s got you there,” Éowyn smirked, drawing an exasperated groan from Merry.

“Low blow, Cotton,” Merry scolded, before unhooking a map of the Shire from the wall. He returned to the table and laid it before them. “Fine. If I’m entertaining this, which I’m not, you’ll need electors. Let’s say you get Hobbiton. Whitfoot has the Tooks, which means he has Tuckborough, on top of White Downs and Michel Delving.” Merry grabbed a napkin and covered the southern half of the map. “North Farthing has Brockenborings and Needlehole, but that won’t take you over the line. At the very least you need Frogmorton, Waymoot, and… oh.”

“We need Buckland,” Sam spoke quietly, knowing the same map of the Shire like the back of his hand, “Merry, I wouldn’t ask if I wasn’t serious. You’re the heir to the Master of Buckland. You’ll get a vote at Lithe, and you can influence the Buckland representatives. 

Merry looked across the table at Sam. There was silence between them. Outside, a pair of robins chirped happily around a bird-feeder. A squirrel launched itself onto the feeder, causing the birds to scatter into the morning.

“What have you got to lose?” Sam leaned forward. “Saruman hurt Buckland, just like he hurt the Shire. What is Whitfoot doing about this? He is pretending it never happened. People lost their homes, their livelihoods, and we are expected to go back to normal? You can turn a blind eye when you’ve got your own home and spend half the year in Rohan, but people are hurting. They need change.”

“That’s not fair,” Merry murmured, “I know. I see it too. It’s just… They expect me to fix it. I don’t know how.”

“Neither do I,” Sam reached across the table and took Merry’s hand in his own, “but I’m willing to try. That’s more than Will Whitfoot is prepared to do.”

“What you’re asking…” Merry exhaled deeply, “Pippin is my cousin. He won’t like this.”

A palpable tension fell across the table. Daisy fidgeted uncomfortably. Sam tried to read the expression on Merry’s face. A warm breeze blew through the kitchen, blowing the napkin off the map. After a moment, Merry stood.

“Éowyn, can we talk outside?” Merry asked. 

Éowyn nodded, and the two of them excused themselves from the room. Sam heard Rosie and Daisy exhale deeply. 

“That… could have gone better,” Rosie said.

“We can do it without him,” Daisy opened her notebook, furiously flicking between pages, “we would just need to… win everything else…” 

Sam sat in silence, staring at the map in front of him. For his whole life he had felt like he knew each corner of that map. The wide plains of North Farthing, the deep stretches of the Old Forest, the rolling hills of Tuckborough. He remembered the first time Frodo had shown him Bilbo’s map of the Misty Mountains. How much bigger the world had seemed. Yet, in that moment, Sam the weight of the Shire, huge and immovable.

They sat and waited in the kitchen. Daisy kept returning to her notebook, thinking out-loud about policy ideas. Sam made tea, struggling slightly with raised counters. Merry had gained a full few inches since his journey to Rohan, and Sam had a suspicion that his love for Éowyn was causing him to grow taller and broader each passing day.

The front door creaked open. Éowyn entered, followed by Merry. Merry crossed to the table and looked at the map.

“Last year we went travelling in Rohan,” Merry started, tracing his finger along the paths of North Farthing, “we visited a town we’ve never been to before. Small place on the northern border. I don’t think it’s on any maps. They were nice people. They looked after me and Éowyn. It reminded me of the Shire. Not the real Shire, mind you, but the Shire I used to imagine, back during the war. I used to remember it as this perfect place. Different.”

Merry scrunched his nose, before continuing. “Every time it gets harder to come back. At some point I realised the Shire isn’t different. The same things happen here that happen everywhere else. Good things, but also bad things. We tell ourselves that the Shire is special, that it was always special. I think we do that to stop feeling guilty for never trying to make things better.” 

“You tell me the Shire can change?” Merry looked squarely at Sam. “I’m no optimist. I know the world you’re getting into. But I can see that same look in your face that that Frodo had. You think you can do the impossible? Prove it. I’m in.”

Daisy leapt from her seat and punched the air in celebration. Sam almost flew across the table to embrace Merry, and Rosie let out a sigh of relief. 

“Whitfoot is going to be furious,” Merry grimaced, prizing himself free of Sam’s embrace. “He is better connected than you, and better financed than you. You need word of mouth support, and you need it on your terms. The sooner you launch your campaign, the better.”

“About that...” Daisy closed her notebook with a sheepish grin. “We are launching it tonight.”

§

Sam and Rosie walked the Old Road back from the Buckland. Daisy and Merry had ridden ahead, agreeing to meet at the Green Dragon tavern. The Frogmorton wood rose around them, tall oak trees as thick as a hobbit canopied the path with their strong branches. The route was dappled with afternoon light, while moss and wild-grass blended a sea of green into the tree-line. Dandelions sprouted in patches of brilliant yellow, confidently gathered at emergent tree roots like rambunctious children. 

Sam and Rosie walked with the easy quiet of a long relationship. Both were, in their own way, lost in thought, imagining what the other might be thinking. This path was one of their favourites, less busy than the route between Hobbiton and the Green Dragon, and quieter than the road to Tuckborough. For Sam, it felt like walking through a dream; the slow comfort that comes from knowing that eventually, in time, he would get to wherever he needed to be.

Rosie stuck out a hand, stopping Sam in his tracks. She put a finger to her lips, and gestured to a clearing on their right. Rosie led Sam off the path, worn earth giving way to soft moss, and guided Sam’s gaze with her hand. 

Stood in the clearing was one of the largest stags that Sam had ever seen. At this distance Sam could have sworn it was at least six feet tall, with a crown of antlers that arced into the sunlight. Sam felt his breath catch in his throat as he watched the stag quietly grazing, thick muscles easily visible under a coat of velvet fur. Rosie breathed in disbelief, and squeezed Sam’s hand. Both stayed utterly still. 

A whistle pierced the afternoon air, long and clear. Sam had never heard a sound like it. It seemed to rise and fall like the wind, yet sounded as close as someone stood at his side. Sam craned his neck, trying to locate the source of the sound. Rosie’s hand pulled Sam back down, and she gestured back to the stag. The animal had raised its head, ears flitting to catch the sound. After a pause, the stag turned to walk east, soon disappearing into the forest. Sam felt himself exhale, and he turned to grin at Rosie.

“I’ve never seen a stag like that in the Shire,” Sam said. 

“I don’t think that was a stag,” Rosie breathed in a low, thoughtful voice. Rosie was distantly related to a long line of healing women. Sam remembered the unique wedding gifts, small parcels of cloth with fragrant spices and herbs that made his eyes water. Rosie sometimes hummed songs to the children, tunes that Sam didn’t recognise, in a language that Rosie hardly seemed to remember. 

“I’ve missed this,” Rosie stood and stretched, “we don’t get out of Hobbiton enough. Do you remember that weekend we spent camping along the Brandywine?”

“Frodo hated that tent,” Sam laughed, helping Rosie back to the path, “he was covered in midge bites by the end of the first evening.”

“You weren’t much better,” Rosie teased, “you couldn’t sleep because you saw a spider.”

“I hate spiders,” Sam shuddered, “that was a good weekend. You’re right. We should go exploring again.”

“Not too fast, Mister Gardner,” Rosie rubbed her stomach, “not until after this one. Besides, I don’t think the mayor will have much free time to go camping.”

“If I’m the mayor,” Sam pulled Rosie into an embrace, “I’ll be able to do whatever I want.”

“I don’t think that’s how it works,” Rosie grinned and kissed Sam. They stayed in embrace for a moment, enjoying the quiet sounds of nature encircling them. Sum suddenly jumped, eyes wide.

“Was that…” he gasped, gesturing to Rosie’s stomach.

“That was one hell of a kick,” Rosie looked down, “this one isn’t wasting any time. We still haven’t decided on a name. I was thinking Daisy. Would you want to ask your sister?”

“Oh, Dee would lose her mind. Elanor, Frodo, Rose, and Daisy,” Sam mused, “I like it. What if it’s a boy?”

Rosie squinted, scratching her cheek in thought. “I’m not sure,” she mused, “let’s cross that bridge when we get to it.” 

They laughed and continued down the path, hand in hand. The magic of the Shire stretched over them like a deep canopy of leaves. The spring afternoon faded into golden light, a magic hour, a thin space between the living and the remembered. In years, Sam and Rosie would cross and recross this road, like ice-skaters, together and eventually alone, learning much and not enough to change the course of their lives.

Eventually the tree-line broke, and they found themselves at the soft hills before Hobbiton. A series of hobbit smials crouched at a crossing of paths. One, larger than the rest, had a series of wagons parked outside of it. A colourful sign hung at the junction, of a green dragon curled around a tankard. 

The Green Dragon was a deceptively large tavern. Even on the busiest nights a couple could find a small alcove and whisper sweet nothings to each other. Layered decorations and bunting left memories of celebrations like tree rings. The party after Sharkey was expelled from the Shire. Bilbo’s homecoming party from Rivendell. Sam and Rosie’s wedding. For many, the Green Dragon wasn’t just a tavern, but a home. 

Sam had never seen the tavern so busy. Hobbits spilled out of the entrance of the tavern, sat on window sills with feet dangling in the air, and the noise of laughter echoed into the evening air. Daisy emerged from the corner and gestured for Sam and Rosie to join her. She revealed a side entrance. Sam remembered stealing kisses with Frodo in this very alleyway. 

“We exceeded capacity half an hour ago,” Daisy explained, guiding Sam through the kitchen and gesturing to the heaving crowds, “it looks like we’ve got most of Hobbiton here, and probably more from Frogmorton. Tom thinks we might run out of beer by sundown.”

“Tom is forgetting about the cellar casks,” Rosie said, removing herself to find her brother.

Sam took a deep breath. He had pictured a few dozen hobbits, maybe forty at most. His wedding was perhaps fifty, but Frodo had done most of the speaking. There must have been over two hundred hobbits crammed into the Green Dragon, and Sam thanked the heavens it wasn’t a hot summer night. The smell would have been unbearable.

Daisy started listing her plans for the event. Sam felt his head spin at the logistics. It hadn’t taken much to get Daisy on board with Sam’s mayorship. Rosie had invited Sam’s sister to dinner one night, and by the end of it Daisy had drafted a campaign itinerary. 

“…that is when you’ll go on stage,” Daisy explained, snapping Sam out of his thoughts.

“Okay, I remember,” Sam reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a series of speech note cards, “just like we practiced?”

“Sammy, forget the notes,” Daisy locked eyes with her brother, “there is only one thing you need to do. You need to make them believe.” 

“Easy, right?” Sam laughed, his hands fidgeting.

“It will be,” Daisy steadied Sam’s hand with her own, “Rosie believes in you. Merry believes in you. Us Gamgee’s don’t fall easy, and we don’t fall for anything. But when we do…”

“… nothing can stop us,” Sam finished, “Ma would be so proud of you.”

“Don’t you dare. You’ll make me cry,” Daisy laughed, before checking her notes. “I need to do a last check. You hang tight. I’ll give you the signal.”

Daisy darted into the fray, directing the assorted members of the Gamgee family. Marigold was putting the final touches on the makeshift stage, clearing away the remains of Daddy Twofoot’s birthday rumble invitational. Halfred and Hamson were trying to keep the crowd moving through the tavern, which neither seemed to be taking seriously until Rosie gave them a hard stare. May was absent, looking after the children with the Gaffer in Bagshot Row. Tom Cotton dashed past brandishing several bottles of wine, wishing Sam luck before continuing towards the bar. 

Sam took a deep breath. His heart was pounding in his ears. He had faced goblins, giant spiders, and the dark heart of the world, but there, sitting in the Green Dragon, he felt a new type of fear. It settled somewhere below his sternum, a tight ball that threatened to take the breath from him. In the distance, Sam heard Hamson quiet the crowd.

“Sam, you’re up,” Daisy whispered.

“Go get ‘em,” Marigold gave Sam a huge thumbs up.

“Just remember to breathe,” Halfred clapped Sam on the back, as Sam approached the stage. 

Sam turned to look at his family. A swell of pride rose in his chest, washing away his fear. 

“I love you,” Rosie mouthed, giving Sam a slow nod. 

Sam stepped onto the stage. He felt each eye turn to look at him. He was entirely aware of how dry his mouth was, and his heartbeat felt like a drum in his ears. The low sun sent streaks of light into the tavern, dazzling Sam. 

“I… uh… I just wanted to say…” he mumbled, fiddling with his notecards. He could feel sweat beginning to bead on his forehead. He looked out over the audience.

Frodo sat in the front row. He was wearing the same elven robe he had worn on their last night in Rivendell. His hair was pinned to one side, and he looked up at Sam with the same bright blue eyes that Sam saw in his dreams. Frodo nodded at Sam, and began to mouth something. A cloud parted, causing a ray of evening sunlight to dazzle Sam’s vision. Blinking, Sam looked back at the audience. Frodo was nowhere to be seen. Sam looked to Daisy and Rosie, each of them giving him a thumbs up.

“I’m not the best speaker,” Sam started, pocketing his notecards, “so I’ll try to keep it short. We have Boffins, Goodbodys, Mugworts, Proudfoots…”

“Proudfeet!” someone yelled, prompting laughter.

“Proudfeet,” Sam laughed, lifting his hands to silence the crowd, “forget the families. I see hobbits. I see the Shire. I see people who fought Sharkey and the ruffians. I see farmers, and milkmaids, and shepherds, and cheesemongers, and blacksmiths, and bartenders.”

“My name is Samwise Gardner. Some of you may know me as Hamfast’s boy. Some of you may also know me as your old gardener. A couple of years ago I went on an… adventure. I imagine some of you don’t trust me because of that. Don’t worry. It was awful, and all I wanted was to come back to the Shire.”

The crowd laughed. The stern faces in the audience softened, and Sam felt a collective leaning in to hear what he had to say.

“I love the Shire. I don’t think that makes me special. But it is true. I love every part of it. From Buckland to White Downs, I think it is the best place in the world. I would take a bad day in the Shire over any day anywhere else.”

Sam paused, considering his next words. “But yes, the Shire has bad days. Sometimes the crops are late. Sometimes the beer is flat. And sometimes we don’t listen to each other. We judge a hobbit by the family they are born into, and not who they are. Some hobbits grow up and enjoy full lives in the Shire, and some hobbits have to work all their lives. We think this is just the way things are. But it doesn’t have to be.”

“Every seven years we elect a mayor. This mayor represents us. They unite the Shire, and work for us. Will Whitfoot has been mayor for twenty-eight years. When was the last time any of us saw him in Hobbiton, or Frogmoton, or Buckland?”

Murmurs of agreement rippled through the audience. Sam looked to Daisy, who had scribbled a series of signs and was holding them, reminding Sam to hit the notes they had rehearsed.

“This isn’t a Tuckborough problem. It isn’t a Michel Delving or a White Downs problem. But I believe the mayor of the Shire should love the whole Shire, not just where his friends live. That’s my point. We don’t need to accept this. We can demand better,” Sam took a deep breath. He knew there was no coming back from this moment. He caught Rosie’s eye, and she nodded at him. “That’s why I’m going to run for mayor of the Shire.”

The air vanished from the room in a collective gasp. Hobbits looked to their neighbours, questioning what they had just heard. 

“I understand that this isn’t normal. I don’t think Miss Goodbody would have imagined the boy who stole roses from her garden would be running for mayor.” Some laughter rippled through the audience. Sam squared his shoulders, and continued. There were nods at a free school in North Farthing, which rumbled into agreement at a proposed extension of the Tuckborough-Bree trade route. By the time Sam explained his ideas for a communal carriage network for elderly citizens, cheers began to erupt throughout the Green Dragon.

“But I don’t want to choose what happens to the Shire. If you choose me for mayor, I’m going to listen to you,” Sam had to raise his voice over the cheering, leading to a smattering of hushes throughout the crowd. “A good hobbit once told me that, so long as the Shire was safe and comfortable, we can find the world more bearable. But the Shire isn’t just a place. It’s a people. I love the Shire, but I love it’s people more. I do not know the way, but I want to do this.” 

Sam bowed, blood rushing through his ears. Behind closed eyes he heard the sound of waves cresting against a harbour wall, and a warm hand on his shoulder. The sound of waves grew louder, until Sam realised that it was the sound of deafening applause. Sam looked over the crowd and saw hobbits cheering for him. Daisy leapt onstage and embraced him, before guiding Sam towards the bar. Tom Cotton was desperately refilling beer mugs, and Sam joined him behind the bar to handle the throng of orders. He encouraged patrons to take their drinks onto the street, to free some space in the tavern. Several hobbits lingered at the bar to ask Sam questions. Eventually May Gamgee took over at the bar, and Sam made his way to the street outside the Green Dragon. 

Sam sat on an upturned barrel and took each hobbit as they came. Questions ranged from what could be done about the East Farthing turnip blight, why the price of leather had doubled in the past year, to why mail kept going missing in Frogmorton. Sam wasn’t sure how long he sat there, but by the time crowds dispersed, night had long fallen over the Shire. 

“I think that is enough for today,” Rosie said, stepping between Sam and the last remaining hobbits, “the man needs some sleep.”

Sam exhaled deeply, feeling tiredness hit his body like a pile of bricks. He stood and stretched. “Thank you, Rosie,” he said, “I guess there’s no going back now.”

“That was amazing,” Rosie kissed Sam, “Tom is closing up early, so we have the whole tavern to ourselves.”

Sam took Rosie by the arm and guided her back into the Green Dragon. Daisy looked as if she was going to explode from excitement. Merry sat with Marigold, explaining different strains of Buckland pipeweed. Tom was wiping down the bar with assistance from May. All turned to cheer Sam as he entered the tavern. 

They sat and drank and laughed long into the evening. Sam felt a weight lift from his chest. The path ahead was uncertain, but the first step had been the hardest. Eventually each began to yawn, bleary eyes blinking in the candlelight. Sam and Rosie agreed that they should get home before their children ran riot over the Gaffer. Gathering their coats, Merry kissed Sam and Rosie on the cheeks.

“Hell of a speech, Gamgee,” Merry hiccuped, “who would have known?”

“I had my suspicions,” Rosie smiled, taking Sam’s arm in her own.

They said their goodbyes, before departing into the night. Sam looked out over the rolling hills of the Shire, shrouded in the comfort of night. Turning his head upwards, Sam saw the waves of starlight above his head. Somehow, in the past week, a new colour had entered Sam’s world. He felt taller, as if his life had finally found a new gravity to orbit. He smiled to himself, and arm-in-arm with Rosie, they walked the dark path until they saw the faint lights of Bag End.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to nonbinaryhamlet and iskello for beta reading this chapter


	3. Of Gardners and Gamgees

Daisy Gamgee looked up from a pile of posters. Bag End had transformed in the month since Sam’s speech at the Green Dragon. The unofficial open door between Bag End and Bagshot Row had become a steady stream of Gardners and Gamgees passing through every hour of the day. While most Gamgees still lived in Bagshot Row, Bag End had become an extension of the family’s eccentric personalities. In this, Daisy had commandeered the old sitting room. Bilbo’s old map of the Shire was spread over the writing desk, an impenetrable series of pencil marks and dates scrawled from Hobbiton to Buckland. 

Despite being the third Gamgee child, Daisy had always been the brains of her siblings. It took hard work to coordinate five young hobbits, and by the time she could speak Daisy was telling her elder brothers Halfred and Hamson to tidy their rooms. In truth, Daisy knew that her greatest strength was her ability to pay attention. When Daisy paid attention, she saw hidden patterns in the world. 

Daisy clenched her shoulders, feeling a pleasant crunch in her neck. The campaign felt natural to her. Organising events, booking rooms, budgeting travel. This was her strength, a familiar muscle built through a life of organising a family, bridging a void left by a parent gone too soon.

Daisy’s thoughts were interrupted by a clatter echoing from the drawing room. She stood to investigate, hearing Elanor’s high-pitched laughter followed by Hamson’s teasing. She rounded the corner and saw an ink pot spilled over Frodo Gardner, who was delighted at the inky hand prints he was leaving across a banner that spread from one side of the room to the other.

“Ham, what’s going on?” Daisy asked, eyebrow raised.

“Whoops, watch out El,” Hamson scooped up the young girl and made a conspiratorial face, “we’ve upset Aunt Daisy.”

“We were painting!” Elanor squealed, displaying her paint covered hands.

Daisy rolled her eyes at her older brother. Before she could respond, May entered the room, a bread-basket held under her arm.

“Leave them alone, Dee,” May teased, leading Frodo in the direction of the kitchen, “they’re having fun.”

“Aunt Daisy doesn’t like fun,” Hamson made a scowling face at Elanor, who exploded into giggles.

“I am fun!” Daisy protested, scowling at her sister, “I’ve scheduled some free time for everyone this afternoon.”

“Scheduled fun, my favourite,” Marigold appeared from the kitchen, darting around May and Frodo.

“Shouldn’t you be helping Sam rehearse his Frogmorton speech?” Daisy asked, feeling her control of the Gamgee household disintegrating. 

“I got bored,” Marigold made a face at Elanor, “besides, Rosie is helping.”

“Rosie is pregnant, Marigold Gamgee,” Daisy scowled, drawing a goading ‘ooh’ from Hamson. “Fine. We can break for lunch. Can someone get Hal and Dad?”

Hamson volunteered, hoisting Elanor over his shoulders and making hawk noises as he exited Bag End. Daisy eyed the banner. “Samwise for Mayor” sprawled in rough cursive. The inky fingerprints could be painted over, but they did have a certain charm. Daisy hated admitting when her older brothers were right. Tutting under her breath, she exited the drawing room and made her way towards the garden. 

Sam was pacing in the garden, flicking through different prompt cards. Rosie was sitting under an awning, cradling their youngest in her arms. Daisy stood in Bag End’s shade and watched her brother practice his latest speech. 

“No, that phrase won’t make sense in Brockenborings,” Rosie interrupted, “it’s a South Farthing euphemism. We should get Fredegar to help.”

“Fatty? I don’t know…” Sam squinted.

“That’s not a very nice nickname,” Rosie frowned, noticing Daisy.

Daisy crossed to Rosie, stroking the baby’s head. It was shaping to be an unusually warm summer in the Shire, and a thick humidity had fallen across Hobbiton. Sam was perspiring through his cotton shirt, and ducked into the shade to grab some water.

The Gardners had been travelling each weekend since the speech at the Green Dragon. Frogmorton and Waymoot had been rousing successes, followed by a town hall discussion hosted by the Brandybucks at Brandy Hall. Between speeches, Sam spent days in the Hobbiton town square, speaking with seemingly every hobbit in East Farthing. Daisy often found him collapsed in the Bag End sitting room, snoring into an open journal filled with half-formed notes. 

The first weeks had been an uncontested series of victories. The Whitfoot campaign had been uncharacteristically slow to respond. According to rumour, Will was making daily trips between Michel Delving and Tuckborough. Thain Paladin had been characteristically tight-lipped, but few doubted his commitment to Will’s candidacy. 

None of the Gamgee family knew how to broach the Pippin question. Merry had visited Bag End shortly after the speech at the Green Dragon. He had told them about his visit to Thain Manor, and the subsequent conversation with Pippin. To describe it as a bad reaction would be an understatement. Even Merry seemed taken aback. Sam had been in an uncharacteristically dark mood since that point, and every Gamgee sibling knew not to cross Sam during a bad mood. 

“Is it lunch already?” Sam asked, taking the baby girl from Rosie’s arms and rocking her in his arms. 

“Oh good, I’m starving,” Rosie stood, before pausing. “No, wait, I think I’m going to throw up. No, definitely starving. I’m good.”

“Everything okay, Rosie?” Daisy asked. 

“Everything hurts and this weather makes me want to die,” Rosie joked, wiping sweat from her brow. 

Sam took his wife’s arm and led her back to Bag End. Rosie had been insistent on getting involved with the campaign. _This is my fourth baby,_ she had told Daisy and Sam _, I need something to kill the boredom._

They entered the kitchen. May was serving plates of sandwiches and lemonade, and Frodo sat on the counter dribbling over a hunk of soft bread. Halfred had returned with the Gaffer, gently leading the older hobbit towards a chair in the window. Marigold was making faces behind Hamson’s back, causing Elanor to squirm with laughter. Daisy made a space for Rosie at the table, before returning to stand and chew on a celery stick. 

“So, Mari, what’s happening between you and Tom Cotton?” Hamson asked, simultaneously wolfing an entire Scotch Egg.

Marigold stared daggers at her brother, before turning her ire towards the rest of the family. “Which one of you told him?”

“Daisy told me over breakfast,” Hamson shrugged.

“I did not!” Daisy protested. “I told you what Sam told me during our trip to Waymoot.” 

“No, don’t put this on me,” Sam interjected, “Besides, I heard about it from May.”

“How dare you!” May feigned horror, “We heard about it from Hal, when we were looking after Dad.”

“I was just saying what the Gaffer told me. He’s not deaf, you know,” Halfred mouthed the word ‘deaf.’

The Gamgee siblings turned to their father, who was looking at something out of the window. Realising that his children were looking at him, the elderly hobbit turned and blinked. “What was that? Speak up!” he shouted.

Marigold threw her hands in the air. “I hate this family!” she groaned, prompting laughter from everyone around the table. 

The rest of the day passed in a blur of activity. Gamgees and Gardners passed between the open rooms of Bag End, joking and pulling the same pranks they had inflicted on each other since childhood. The long summer afternoon faded into a longer summer evening. Golden light washed over Hobbiton, as Rosie sat in a rocking chair looking over the garden. 

Rosie hummed a tune to herself, twisting her hair around her finger. There had been no half measures in joining the Gamgee family. You were all the way in, and that was that. Family was a tangled mess of thorns for Rosie Cotton, but the Gamgee’s positively lived in each other’s thoughts. At times she found it exhausting. Moving into Bag End had given her the space to be alone with her imagination. She sighed, enjoying the blended purples and reds of the Hobbiton sunset. There was something about this hour that brought her a total peace. 

_Careful now, Rosie Cotton,_ a voice that smelled of lavender and dry earth whispered in her ear. _Worlds draw close in these hours. You get careless and you’ll walk right out of your body and into the sky._

Rosie came out of her memories as Sam called her name. Sam crossed the garden, dishcloth over one shoulder and shirt loosely unbuttoned. 

“Frodo and Elanor are asleep,” Sam said, passing Rosie a glass of cloudy apple juice. “Daisy might end up working a bit later, but she said she would be quiet.”

“She’s working too hard,” Rosie sipped the juice.

“Daisy has always done this,” Sam smiled, “did I ever tell you about the time she made me and Marigold organise our socks by ‘weather appropriateness.’”

Rosie laughed gently, leaning against Sam’s chest. A squirrel darted across the garden, grabbing some discarded breadcrumbs before scampering into the rose bushes. The sun, finally disappeared behind the horizon, left streaks of orange across the West. The first evening star blinked into view above their heads.

“What do you think Frodo is up to?” Rosie asked.

Sam paused. Rosie heard a breath catch in his chest. “I don’t know,” he said, “you know, I haven’t thought about it recently. With the campaign, and the speeches…”

Rosie looked up at Sam. A strange expression had formed on his face, part regret at something lost, part realisation of something new. “Does that make me a bad person?” Sam asked.

“Unfortunately for all of us,” Rosie said, “it makes you normal.”

Sam laughed softly, before kissing Rosie. They sat in the garden until night stars flooded the sky, returning to Bag End to sleep and dream. 

§

The following morning passed in a flurry of activity. May Gamgee sipped a dark earthy tea as she peered into the Bag End oven. The scones were almost ready, golden yellow where they needed to be slightly browned. May frowned. She could sell her baked goods in the market, but she would need to set some aside for the North Farthing campaign stop. Arithmetic was not May’s strength, as she started counting on her fingers. May usually asked Daisy to help her, but her sister had been working since before sunrise. May could handle this.

Hamson and Marigold had been orbiting the kitchen for the past few minutes, hungry expressions on both of their faces. May pretended not to see them, instead rearranging the kitchen cabinets. Bag End was a well stocked home for a bachelor, but still lacked the fundamentals for everyday family cooking. May tutted at expensive cutlery but absence of large cooking pots. _No wonder Sam never returned my soup dish_ , May thought.

May removed the scones from the oven in a haze of cheddar, cardamon, and chilli. Gamgee siblings began to file through the kitchen, making surreptitious glances towards the baked goods. A small hand reached over the counter towards a jar of oatmeal cookies. May leaned around the counter, spotting the young Frodo Gardner. She smiled at her nephew’s bashful face, hoisting him onto the counter. 

“Young hobbits only get cookies with mealtimes,” May explained slowly, passing Frodo an apple slice.

“Yeah Frodo,” Marigold Gamgee echoed, grabbing the cookie jar and wolfing down the largest one she could grab. “Adults get to do whatever they want though.”

May flicked her sister’s hand with a kitchen towel. Marigold yelped, almost dropping the cookie jar. The ringing doorbell cut short any argument between sisters. Gamgee siblings looked at each other, wondering who would be calling at this hour. May hung the towel over her shoulder and exited towards the front door. Dusting flour from her hands, she straightened her apron and opened the door. May’s warm smile froze when she saw who stood on the other side. 

“Um… Sam?” May called out, “can someone please get Sam?”

Will Whitfoot stood at the door to Bag End. His shirt was loosely unbuttoned underneath a tweed blazer, with matching tweed flat-cap pulled over his auburn hair. He had a thistle pinned against his breast pocket, a sharp blue crowned above a tight bunch of thorns. 

Sam hurried to the front room, remembering to tuck in his shirt. Rosie and Daisy stood in the corridor, sending warning looks to the other Gamgee siblings. 

Will smiled warmly at Sam, ignoring the uncomfortable silence. 

“Hello Sam,” Will said, tipping his cap. “May I come in?”

“Mayor Whitfoot, we weren’t expecting you,” Sam took May’s place at the door, letting her return to Daisy’s side.

“Many apologies for the impromptu visit,” Will said in a voice that didn’t exist in the same continent as an apology. “I found myself rather unexpectedly in Hobbiton this morning, and I thought I would pay the Master of Bag End a visit. I’ve heard much about your hospitality.”

“I’ll be honest, this isn’t a great time,” Sam attempted to calm his nerves. “Could you come back in a few hours?”

“If only I could,” Will sighed. “It’s a terribly busy day for me. I’ll only take a moment of your time.” 

Sam looked back to Rosie, who made a confused gesture. Daisy gestured towards the study, mouthing encouragement. Sam turned to Will.

“Okay,” Sam smiled a hollow smile. “Let’s talk.” 

Sam led Will to the Baggins' old study. Will took a turn around the room, eyeing piles of posters and notes. He moved some notepads from Bilbo’s old writing chair and took a seat. 

“You’re running an impressive operation,” Will said, lighting a pipe, “I hate to admit it, but you might be the first hobbit to ever catch me off guard.”

Sam pursed his lips. He remembered listening to Bilbo and Frodo talk about the Sacksville-Baggins’. _Say nothing,_ Bilbo would say, _and they have nothing to use against you._

“Don’t get me wrong, I love the chutzpah,” Will sucked on his pipe, unperturbed by Sam’s silence, “there’s a human saying, ‘fortune favours the bold.’ I like that. Appropriate, wouldn’t you say?”

“There’s a Shire saying about unwanted guests too,” Sam said, eyes watering at the pipe-smoke.

“Don't be rude, Sam,” Will tutted. “We are both adults. This may be unconventional, but it is no reason to forget our upbringings. Speaking of, I should thank you for letting me see Bag End. I love what Baggins did with this place.”

Sam resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “Come on Will,” he said, leaning against the writing desk. “You came for something. Let’s get it over with.”

“Pity,” Will sighed. “Hobbits these days. No talent for conversation. Yes, I have a question. A few questions, actually. Let’s start here; why are you doing this?”

Sam blinked, before snorting with laughter. “Really? Is that what the talented Will Whitfoot wants to ask me?” he chuckled, “listen, I’ve got a speech in Brockenborings in two days. Why don’t you come?” 

“I’m aware of your speeches,” Will said through pursed lips. “I do hope you know that being mayor isn’t just about giving speeches. Then again, you have a remarkable dearth of experience when it comes to public office.”

“I deputised for Frodo,” Sam felt a mocking tone enter his voice. 

“Yes, Baggins,” Will sucked on the end of his pipe. “A good mayorship. Positively conservative, even by my standards. A far cry from the ticket you have been campaigning for.”

“The Shire wanted healing then,” Sam frowned, “now the Shire wants change.”

“You’re very good at knowing what the Shire wants,” Will said dryly. “One might suspect that, in your mind, the Shire and Samwise Gardner are one and the same thing. I digress. I’ll ask another question. How do you imagine all of this working out?”

“Is that it?” Sam asked, annoyance creeping into his voice. “My goal is to win. To become mayor.”

“That is clear,” Will said, chewing the end of his pipe, “but what happens afterwards? I’ve heard about your ideas. That is a lot of changes for the Shire. Mayors only serve seven years, Sam. Are you perhaps setting yourself up for failure? Unless…”

Will took a mock intake of breath, placing his hand on his chest. “Are you already planning a second term?” Will asked, his eyes focussed on Sam.

“I…” Sam looked to the study door, “I haven’t thought about that.”

“I don’t think that is even slightly true. You have a vision for the Shire, and you’ll do whatever it takes. You know you are going to run again,” Will gestured to the study door with his pipe. “Have you told them?”

“Leave my family out of this,” Sam growled.

“Naturally,” Will gestured to the reams of paper and posters around the study. “I can’t help but notice that they are already involved. You’ve not established many boundaries between your work and home life.”

”Stop it, Will,” Sam pointed, “you’re just trying to get in my head.”

“I don’t think I’m the only one in there,” Will retorted, “you really have no idea what you’re getting into, do you?”

“And you do?” Sam scoffed, “I’m not going to take this from you. You were mayor when Saru- when Sharkey took over. That’s on you. _Good old Whitfoot, reliable_. When the Shire needed leadership, where were you? Enough about me. What have you ever done for the Shire?”

“Sometimes doing nothing is the hardest thing of all,” Will said quietly. “Sam, I don’t want to fight. I think you’ve got passion. I have a proposal. You want to change the Shire, but you don’t have the experience. I have that experience. I have those connections. I can get your ideas over the line. Give up the race, and stand as my deputy.”

Sam stared at Will. Will didn’t blink, a stoney sincerity on his face. “You think I can beat you,” Sam felt a smile crack across his lips.

“I think you’re stubborn enough not to quit,” Will said, “and I don’t want to see a maverick burn the Shire down because he doesn’t know the difference between a dream and a lit match. I’m giving you everything you want. You want to change the Shire? Here’s your chance.”

“You have a very high opinion of yourself,” Sam said. “I think you want to take my ideas and put your name on them.”

“Don’t be dense, Sam. I scratch your back, you scratch my back. This is politics.”

“You know,” Sam pinched the bridge of his nose, “you’re the second person to say that to me, and I’m getting sick of it.”

“Sam, I’m giving you a chance. You want honesty? Let’s talk honestly,” Will took off his glasses and pinched the brow of his nose. For the first time Sam noticed the wrinkles under Will’s eyes. “Regrettably, this campaign isn’t an ego-trip for you. You’re the kind of fool that believes what you say. I’ve been mayor long enough to know people just like you. I know that when you lose, you’re going to keep trying. You’ll make sacrifices, because you believe that it will be worth it. It’ll be small things at first. Dinner can wait. Weekends away from home. You can miss a birthday. They happen every year, right? You’ve got a good family, they’ll enable you. Each victory will inspire you to give more, because it will never be enough. One day, Sam, you’re going to wake up and look at your children, and you’re going to realise that they have lived their entire lives, and you weren’t there.”

“I know I’m not a perfect mayor,” Will continued, “But I’m consistent. I’m a known quantity. I don’t scare people with big ideas. You think you can do a better job than me? Maybe for a year. But you’re on a high wire, Sam. Stay up there long enough and something will break. When that happens there won’t be enough time in the world to fix it.”

Silence fell across the study. The sound of birdsong drifted through an open window. In his beating heart and hard determination, Sam felt his future hurtling towards him. In a moment of clarity, he realised that nothing in his adventure with Frodo could have prepared him for this choice. He turned and walked to the study entrance. 

“I’ll see you at Lithe,” Sam said, opening the door and gesturing for Will to leave.

Will frowned, before sighing. He dampened his pipe and returned his flat-cap to his head. Will stood, and crossed the study floor, stopped next to Sam.

“Disappointing,” Will muttered.

Will exited the study, turning sharply on his heel and striding towards the front door. Marigold leapt out of Will’s path, having been crouched just outside of the study door. Rosie stood by the entrance with Frodo and Elanor, arms folded and eyebrow raised at Will, closing the door behind him. Hamson and May peeked around the corner, before approaching Sam. Gardners and Gamgees looked at each other, considering what had just happened. 

“This changes nothing,” Sam said. “We’ve come this far. Daisy, can we extend the North Farthing leg?”

“Sam…” Rosie said, a warning tone in her voice.

“Dee is run ragged,” May interrupted Rosie, “she can’t give any more.”

“I can do this,” Daisy said, stepping next to Sam. “It’s only a month. Whitfoot knows we have a chance. That’s the only reason he would come here.”

Sam took Rosie’s hand in his own. He looked at his family with a fiery determination.

“Let’s go win an election.“


	4. Samwise the Brave

Marigold Gamgee hoisted a palette of tankards from one end of the Green Dragon festival stall to another. Transferring a tavern’s stock into a portable wagon was a complicated operation, but Rosie Cotton had trained Marigold and Tom well. Marigold swore as she spotted a grease stain on her summer dress, and tried to rub it out with her finger.

The annual Lithe festival ground the Shire to a standstill. Traders, farmers, craftsmen, all converged on the feast days with improbable efficiency. Businesses rose and fell on their ability to take advantage of the summer festivals. The Green Dragon was no exception, Marigold thought, although selling alcohol to drunk hobbits wasn’t the hardest job in the world.

A group of giggling Bofur sisters passed the stall, each wearing the latest fashions from South Farthing. Marigold bit her lip and flashed a friendly service smile. This was why she was here, in the sweltering humidity, on three hours of sleep. No other festival brought high and low Hobbit societies together like Lithe, and no other festival encouraged hobbits to open their purses like Lithe.

“Mari, have you got the wine taps? I want to make sure the Tuckborough Reds are still good,” Tom asked, rounding the corner.

Tom Cotton had taken on the running of the Green Dragon after Rosie and Sam’s second child. Marigold, ever keen to distance herself from the Gamgee profession of gardening, had found employment behind the bar, spending late nights helping Tom escort drunk hobbits from the tavern. Tom, no longer the skinny teenager who blew raspberries at girls, had since grown taller and broader, with a thick beard that matched his auburn ringlets. Marigold hadn’t required much convincing to work overtime, especially if it meant working in close proximity to Tom.

“Here you go,” Marigold passed Tom the wine taps, trying to appear aloof and unbothered by Tom’s biceps, visible through his shirt. 

“Thanks,” Tom coughed, a redness spreading across his cheeks. “Your dress… it’s nice. You look good.”

Marigold felt the floor of her stomach fall out underneath her. 

“Not to say you don’t usually look good. Just that… I think this dress is a good dress. Not that I know anything about dresses,” Tom coughed nervously. “I’m going to go dress the wine. I mean  _ taste  _ the wine.”

Tom turned on his heel and hurried out the back of the stall. Marigold pursed her lips to hide the grin spreading across her face. She turned to see Merry Brandybuck stood opposite the bar, eyebrows raised.

“That was cute,” Merry winked.

“Don’t tell my brother,” Marigold leaned across the bar.

Merry made a gesture of locking his lips and throwing away the key. “Speaking of our Sam, where is he?” 

Marigold gestured down the row of tents, past the woodcrafting and bobbing-for-apple stalls. Merry tipped his brow to Marigold, and proceeded in that direction. 

It was incorrect to describe Lithe as a single festival. Rather, it existed as an amalgamation of the Shire’s many midsummer practices. Hobbits had rarely agreed on a single way to party, and while some considered Lithe to be a tasteless display of consumption and excess, Merry had grown to enjoy the frenetic energy that Lithe brought to the Shire. For Merry, now enamoured with a love of adventure, Lithe existed as a perfect ideal of the Shire that he had long since grown disillusioned with. In all its artificiality there was something  _ real  _ about the festival.

Merry made his way past a series of colourful tents selling cheese and other sundries. Several hobbits were already nursing intoxications on benches that flanked the aisles between tents. In the distance, a podium was being erected alongside a bandstand and maypole. Merry felt a flash of recognition as he saw Sam’s name opposite Will Whitfoot on a banner overhanging the stage.  _ This is really happening _ , Merry thought, almost in spite of himself. Daisy Gamgee stepped out of one of the tents near the stage, and waved to Merry. 

A series of squat tents flanked the public square at the centre of the festival. While these tents were intended for the private parties of gentle-hobbits throughout the festival, tonight they suffered the brief indignity of hosting politics. The election of the Mayor of the Shire was undoubtedly a lesser attraction when compared with dancing and feasting. It was rarely well-attended, and even rarer well-considered. Yet this year, for the first time in the Shire’s long memory, the mayorship was  _ interesting. _

Daisy ushered Merry into the tent. Merry was immediately met with the sharp smell of lavender, as well as some herbs he didn’t recognise. Sam was pacing around the tent, his hands fidgeting. A candle, the source of the strong smell, burned by a series of ledgers and campaign posters. Merry embraced Sam and looked his friend in the eye.

“I think you looked less nervous running from that demon in Moria,” Merry attempted to joke.

“I think I felt less nervous,” Sam smiled weakly, gesturing to the candle. “Gift from Rosie’s aunt. It helps, a bit.”

“You’re going to have to introduce me to this mystery aunt, one day,” Merry mused. He led Sam to a seat flanking the tent, underneath an elaborate series of bunting boasting the Brandybuck family colours. 

“You’ve got hours until they finish counting the votes,” Merry rubbed Sam’s shoulder, “even then, the candidacy doesn’t get announced until after the ceilidh. Why don’t we go for a walk, get you out of this tent?”

Sam bit his lip and closed his eyes. Slowly, he nodded. “I think that would be nice,” he said.

Merry looked over to Daisy, who nodded in agreement. He took Sam by the arm and guided him to the entrance of the tent to observe several hobbits beginning to argue about the placement of ribbons around the maypole. 

“Do you remember when we came here, the Summer after Bilbo’s 111 th ?” Merry asked, loading up his pipe. 

Sam gratefully took the offered pipe, and inhaled deeply. “Was that the festival where you and Pippin placed bets on me and Frodo?”

Merry felt a sharp pang of embarrassment. “Yes, well, that was Pip’s idea,” he hurriedly said, turning to hide his blush. 

“And that was the same festival where you spiked Frodo’s drink and got him to recite  _ The Tales of Beren _ backwards?”

“Now, we all were involved with that.”

“After which you tried to juggle Bilbo’s paper-weights, until one of them went through the study window?”

“I’m starting to regret coming here, Sam.”

Sam laughed, nervously at first, before relaxing into a fuller, deeper sound. A young hobbit turned to point at Sam and Merry, as their parents shared delighted whispers amongst themselves. 

“You were something else back then,” Sam said, wiping his eye. “Frodo kept telling me, ’these are my friends, Samwise, and you’ll learn to love them like I love them.’ For the longest time I was convinced you were trying to scare me away from Frodo.”

“That’s cute. Because when you were gone Frodo would rip both of our heads off,” Merry shuddered, remembering Baggins' talent for insults. “Pippin kept annoying you because it got a rise out of Frodo. And I… it was easier to get swept up in it.”

Merry sat for a moment, watching a band tune instruments. Revelry could be distantly heard in the direction of the amusement tents. Merry leaned back, watching the last of the dusk light fade into a purple and blue expanse.

“You know, Sam, I’m sorry for how we acted back then,” Merry said.

“Merry, you don’t need to…”

“No, I want to though,” Merry interrupted. “Pippin and I, we bullied you. I regret that. Frodo was right about you. You’re a brave man, Sam Gamgee. You always have been.” 

Sam put his hand on Merry’s shoulder. He saw Merry’s eyes, tempered with age, yet still as bright and inquisitive as the day they first met in Bag End. 

“Éowyn’s done a real number on you, hasn’t she?” Sam joked.

Merry rolled his eyes and threw his hands in the air. “She’s ruined me! I used to be  _ fun _ . Now I think about the  _ consequences of my actions _ .”

They laughed in the warm summer evening. The band struck up a slow jig, and several hobbits began circling the dancing green. 

“I was thinking,” Sam said quietly, “if I don’t win…”

“Sam, you shouldn’t…”

“I can’t help it, Merry. I was thinking, if I don’t win, Rosie and I wanted to go travelling. We couldn’t do a full journey, not with the children at this age. But maybe in a year, we could manage getting out to Rivendell, on the old highroad? It is a bit pedestrian compared with what you and Éowyn do, but you would be welcome to join us.”

“We would like that,” Merry smiled, “the Rivendell valley is beautiful at the end of summer. All the leaves are turning red and orange, at sunrise it looks as if the whole valley is on fire.”

Sam sighed, a memory of late Rivendell mornings passing over him. He looked out over the growing dance. The hobbits had decided on the  _ Merry Elven Major _ as the first dance, forming whirling groups of dancing trios. Sam tapped his foot along with the song, a soaring pipe and fiddle duet that undergirded the dance.

“Are you sure we can’t convince Daisy to join the dance?” Merry asked, noticing Sam’s interest in the music.

“Not a chance,” Sam laughed, “Daisy only dances after a bottle of white.”

“Pity,” Merry scrunched his nose. “Why don’t we go for a turn around the festival? Before it gets too busy?”

Sam looked at Merry and smiled. “Lead the way, Merry.”

The two hobbits stood and crossed the field. The festival was arranged in a series of rough concentric circles around the dancing green. A number of thoroughfares led to different tents and stalls, each one an annual tradition unto its own. Sam grabbed Merry’s arm and turned him sharply away from the stall labelled  _ Ladies of East Farthing Lithe Fundraiser _ . Merry looked at Sam with a confused expression, before a flash of realisation.

“Lobelia,” they said simultaneously.

They followed one of the thoroughfares into a series of food stalls. The smell of flash roasted turnips, broth, and haggis filled the air. Sam felt his stomach rumble. He realised that he had not eaten anything since the morning. 

“Merry, hold up,” Sam said, stopping his friend. “Padraig should be here somewhere.”

“Padraig?” Merry frowned.

“You haven’t…” Sam gasped. “Oh dear. Oh no. Oh Merry.”

Sam led Merry in the direction of a food stall. The exterior was weathered, with a combination yellow and red sash draped across the window. The scent of roasting meat flooded out of the tent, tinged with spices and herbs that Merry couldn’t place. A heavyset hobbit with a thick handlebar moustache stood within the tent, carefully rotating an entire pig. 

“Fàilte, a Phadraig!” Sam exclaimed.

The hobbit turned to Sam, grinning wide enough to expose a series of greying teeth. “Ceud mìle fàilte, a charaid,” the hobbit spoke with a thick North Farthing accent. “Dè tha thu ag iarraidh?”

“The regular, as always!” Sam said. “But make it two? One for my friend. Maybe hold the special sauce on his? First time.”

“Òbh òbh, chan eil e cho làidir,” Gunther chortled.

The hobbit produced one of the largest carving knives that Merry had ever seen. He proceeded to slice ribbons of meat from the pig, scooping each with delicate precision. He turned, producing two blackened rolls from a small oven, before them with meat, slices of lettuce, and a herb-scented stuffing. He finally produced a small vial of red liquid from his apron, before delicately dripping a small drop on one of them. He grinned at Sam, before passing the wraps.

Sam passed Merry the wrap without the red drops. Merry inhaled the heady combination of meat, sauce, and vegetables. He felt his mouth begin to water. He took his first bite, and audibly gasped at the explosion of flavour. Merry saw Sam and Padraig watching his expression, and frowned.

“Don’t hold out on me Sam,” Merry turned to Padraig. “The special sauce? The red one?”

Padraig looked to Sam, who shrugged. He produced the vial from his apron one more time, and with the same delicacy laid a small series of droplets across the mouth of the sandwich. 

“Tha mi duilich, a bhalaich,” Padraig said, returning the bottle to his apron. 

Merry took another greedy bit of the sandwich. He chewed for a moment, savouring the flavour, before swallowing. His expression paused. Merry’s eyes suddenly widened. His hands leapt to his mouth.

“Hot!” Merry gasped, face flushing red. “Gods! Hot!”

“Eat the lettuce,” Sam grinned, slowly chewing his own.

Merry took another bite. The lettuce and mayonnaise flooded his mouth, smothering his sore taste buds. His eyes watered as the taste softened. He proceeded to wolf the entire sandwich, to the delight of Sam and Padraig.

“Tapadh leat, a Phadraig,” Sam said, finishing his own sandwich.

“ _ Ist _ ,” Padraig pursed his lips, wagged his finger at Sam. “Ciamar a tha Roìsìn?”

“Very good, she sends her love. We will visit next time we come up north,” Sam blushed, leading Merry away from the tent.

“Who is Roìsìn?” Merry asked as they left, having followed the bare bones of the conversation.

“He was asking about Rosie,” Sam explained, “Padraig knew her family, her mothers side that is. Folks up north still call her that. It’s, uh… complicated.” 

Merry wiped the tears from his stinging eyes. He was aware that Rosie’s family was from the north of the Shire, an area he knew precious little about. The Cotton family had a peculiar reputation in the Shire. For many they were the face of a workaday family, farmers and tavern owners apiece. Yet there was another side to that family, a stranger side, insular and resistant to Shire conventions. Merry had spotted them at Sam and Rosie’s wedding, draped in thick cloaks despite the summer heat. He remembered turning his eyes upwards, seeing the largest raven he had ever seen circling high above the wedding. 

They proceeded through the food stalls, past artisans and merchants. Merry regaled Sam with gossip from Buckland, as well as the latest Bree fashions. Sam pointed out which stalls were the best for deals, and explained his technique for haggling. They circled around the festival, by which point the stars were bright in the sky, and fireworks were distantly exploding over the rolling hills. 

“This is fun,” Merry said, as they returned to the dance square, now bustling with hobbits. “I don’t know why we’ve never done this.”

“We did this,” Sam rolled his eyes. “Well, Frodo and Pippin did it. We were along for the ride.”

“That’s true,” Merry mimed holding a glass. “In that case, here’s to life at our own pace.”

“Cheers to that,” Sam knocked an invisible glass to Merry’s. 

Sam laughed, spotting Daisy push through the crowd. His smile faded when he saw the grave expression on her face. Her eyes were wide and intense, and her lips were pulled into a tight line. 

“Come with me,” Daisy said, grabbing Sam by the hand.

“Dee, what’s going on?” Sam asked, gesturing for Merry to follow.

“No time. He’s already here,” Daisy snapped, moving drunk hobbits out of her path.

“Who is here?” Sam mouthed an apology at the hobbits knocked sideways from Daisy’s warpath. “Daisy, talk to me!”

Daisy pulled Sam in front of the Brandybuck tent, before turning to look Sam up and down. She tutted, brushing crumbs from Sam’s shoulder. 

“What is going on?” Merry asked.

Daisy gestured to the tent entrance. Sam gingerly pulled the entrance flap back.

“Hello Samwise,” a familiar voice said. 

Pippin lounged across a chair by the Brandybuck writing desk. He wore a high-collared shirt, tightly bound with a silver toned collar chain. His legs were folded, revealing a crimson pair of heeled riding boots. A brooch glistened above his right breast, bearing the crest of the Thain. 

Sam felt his breath catch in his throat. There was something different about Pippin. The young hobbit that irritated Gandalf and sang bawdy songs in Rivendell was gone. There was a confidence in Pippin’s eyes, a sharpness that reminded Sam of Bilbo. Sam had a sinking realisation that Pippin had been changing for years, and only now was Sam seeing the adult Pippin had become.

_ I guess I have changed too, _ Sam thought. 

“Pip!” Merry exclaimed, approaching to embrace his cousin. “You didn’t say you were coming!”

Pippin gently kissed Merry on both cheeks, seemingly distracted by his cousin's presence. “You must forgive me, Merry,” he said, “I was hoping to speak with Sam. Would you mind giving us some privacy?”

“Merry, you can stay,” Sam said, crossing the floor to stand above the desk opposite Pippin. “Daisy too.”

Pippin frowned. “Sam, I think it would be better if…” 

“You want to talk business. Merry and Daisy are a part of this business,” Sam gestured to Daisy to close the tent entrance. He felt the months of silence between him and Pippin sit like a hard knot of anger in his chest.

Pippin met Sam’s gaze. If he felt the tension between them, he didn’t show it. A smile slipped over his face like a mask, as Pippin leaned back in his chair. He considered the room, eyes flitting between Merry, Daisy, and Sam.

“Let us start with congratulations,” Pippin began, “I hear you have been terribly busy. I know of Merry’s propensity for getting in over his head, but I always considered you to possess a more sensible disposition.”

Sam pursed his lips. Pippin’s speech had the dizzying characteristics of Shire high society. In their youth Pippin had been a prodigious flyter, able to conjure a devastating turn-of-phrase out of thin air. 

“I shan’t neglect your successes though. Your coalition is broad, your ideas are new, and you’ve energised the… full extent of the Shire. Some might say you had some help from inside the tent,” Pippin continued, his eyes slowly moving over to Merry, who turned red. “Despite the alternatives, you have stuck to this plan to upend whatever order the Shire still possesses.”

Sam felt his eyes narrow. A realisation suddenly dawned on him. “Will. He came to Bag End. That was your idea,” he said, his voice low.

“Whitfoot did what?” Merry exclaimed, stepping forward. 

Pippin looked genuinely embarrassed. “Merry, we will talk later,” Pippin said, biting his lip.

Merry muttered a string of expletives, to which Pippin scowled. Pippin turned back to Sam, his knuckles wrapped tight around the arms of his chair. “Yes. That was my idea. Would it make you feel better if I told you that, compared with my father, my ideas were the least publicly embarrassing?”

“The things he said,” Sam growled, “you told him to say that?”

“I can’t be held responsible for everything that comes out of Will Whitfoot’s mouth,” Pippin replied. “Do you really want to compare insults? You’ve implied a hell of a lot about my family.”

Sam felt a sharp pang of regret. While he had tried to run a positive campaign, it hadn’t hurt to include some cheap hits towards the Shire’s noble families. Of all the noble families of the Shire, the Tooks had been the easiest example of entrenched privilege. 

“Okay, let’s not get too heated,” Daisy interjected with a nervous laugh, “we can put this aside until the mayorship announcement, which won’t be for hours.“ 

A genuine smile broke across Pippin’s face. “I’m so glad you brought that up, Daisy. You don’t truly believe the Thain discovers the new mayor of the Shire at the same time as everyone else?”

A silence fell across the room. Sam felt a chill run up his body. Pippin looked as pleased as a cat. 

“You… know who has won?” Daisy breathed, reaching for a chest of drawers to steady herself. 

“Nothing quite so gauche. I do know which electors have voted, and who they have voted for,” Pippin traced his finger along the edge of the desk. “In knowing that, I know the margin between the two candidates, and what it might take to push one candidate over the edge. Which, inevitably, leads me to know the importance of the Thain’s vote.”

Sam’s head swam. The speech at the Green Dragon felt far away. He could feel his breath quicken in his chest. 

“What is this, Pippin?” Merry paced the tent floor. “Are you here to gloat? To tell us that Whitfoot won?”

Pippin sighed, lowering his head. “Forgive my bluntness, Merry, but you are going to make a terrible Master of Buckland,” he muttered, rubbing his temple. “I’m not some spoiled high society brat. I am the heir to the Thainship. The Thain represents the history of the Shire. It is something to believe in. The Shire survives because of belief.”

“But you, Samwise, have spent the better part of this summer telling everyone from Hobbiton to Brockenborings that they believe in a lie. You have created a problem that I don’t think you understand.” 

“I told people that the Shire is broken,” Sam said, “I’m not the one who broke it.”

“Everyone is a villain compared with you,” Pippin scoffed, tucking his hair behind his ear. “It’s intolerable.  _ Samwise the Brave _ .” 

“Pip, that’s not fair,” Merry stepped forward.

“No, it’s not fair,” Pippin spat, “I don’t want to be the bad guy. But if I dare to contradict  _ him _ , that is exactly what everyone will think I am.”

Merry paused, and turned to Sam. An inscrutable look had passed over Sam’s face, a strange intensity that seemed to be focussed at Pippin with deadly precision. Merry’s heart sank. Somehow, deep in his soul, he knew that there was no going back. 

“There is another option,” Pippin said quietly, “imagine the Shire was given a new beginning. A chance for cooperation. A new Thain, and a new mayor.”

Nobody moved. The sound of merriment outside seemed muted. Sam looked into Pippin’s face, trying to find the same wayward youngster who had been berated by wizards and humans alike. Somehow, in the years since their adventure, Pippin had grown sharper, more astute. His carefree expressions had faded into a stoic reservedness, a careful surface under which Sam felt the same molten heat as a mountain of fire. In an instant, Sam realised that Pippin reminded him of Frodo, for both masked the enormity of their emotions under a carefully chosen expression.

“You want me to be mayor?” Sam asked slowly.

“I don’t get the luxury of wanting things,” Pippin exhaled, before speaking in a low voice. “But I also don’t want this fight. Sam, I don’t agree with you. But I trust you. Can we make this work?”

All the world felt as if it was holding its breath. Merry watched Sam and Pippin stare at each other. He remembered many summers past, how they had bickered over Frodo’s attention. He never imagined that Sam and Pippin would become friends. Yet, somehow, he had hoped that time would soften their sharp corners. As the stars continued their whirling dance, Merry looked at two hobbits who held the future of the Shire in their hands. For the first time in a very long time, Merry felt afraid. 

“I’ll do it,” Sam turned to Pippin, outstretching his hand.

“Delightful,” Pippin stood, shaking Sam’s hand. “Now, I have to go tell Will that he can take an early retirement. I hope you have a speech prepared.”

Pippin gathered his cloak, winking at Merry before exiting the tent into the gathering crowd. Daisy turned to Merry, and back to Sam.

“What just happened?” Daisy exploded, causing Merry to jump.

Sam stared blankly at the entrance to the tent. A hundred emotions rushed through his mind. In all his restless nights he had never imagined the world coming to pass like this. 

“I think… I just became Mayor of the Shire,” Sam breathed. 


End file.
